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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24553837">Under the Blazing Sun, Thy Footsteps Track</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/pseuds/Elfgrandfather'>Elfgrandfather</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ancient Greece, Ancient Rome, Canon Compliant, Crowley is a Simp (Good Omens), Early Modern Era, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Terrorism, M/M, Middle Ages, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Queer History, Slurs, i wouldn't say "reclaimed" but not used maliciously</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:47:46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,149</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24553837</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/pseuds/Elfgrandfather</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale and Crowley keep finding themselves mixed up with a rather queer lot, and eventually have to contend with what it might mean, both about their own identities and their relationship to each other.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fandom 5K 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Under the Blazing Sun, Thy Footsteps Track</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/isxbella/gifts">isxbella</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello isxbella!</p><p>First off, sorry for the tags being a bit heavy, but I thought it'd be better to be safe considering some of the things mentioned in the story. It's really pretty in keeping with the tone of the series.</p><p>I was a bit self-indulgent with the gay history bits, to be honest, but I tried to avoid making it expository or didactic. I had a very complicated framing device planned and it kind of fell through but I think I got around it in the end. Hope you enjoy it!</p><p>Title is from Virgil's second Eclogue for reasons that will become apparent.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Eresos // 500 BC</strong>
</p><p>Aziraphale wasn’t <em>displeased</em> to see Crawly, but going on holiday only to find oneself at the exact same place as one’s (alleged) enemy was, naturally, fairly awkward. Meeting said enemy whilst trying out one’s first female corporation, doubly so. But Crawly had spotted him, waved at him, and here they were, sitting side by side in Lady Glykera’s garden, with an admittedly delightful view of the ocean.</p><p>‘I didn’t know demons got time off,’ said Aziraphale, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. That pale, almost white hair turned many a head in this part of the world, especially when combined with his impeccable Greek. It had certainly helped attract the attention of his current host, Glykera, an evidently smitten noblewoman with a stable of beautiful girls – but who seemed content to admire her guest from afar.<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a></p><p>Crawly crossed his legs, his short toga leaving very little to the imagination. ‘Say what you will about Hell, angel, we know how to unionise. The Fall was basically about labour rights.’</p><p>‘I don’t think that’s quite true.’</p><p>‘Agree to disagree.’ Those acid yellow eyes looked him up and down, from leather sandals to laborious plaited hairstyle – not lecherously, mind, just with obvious curiosity. ‘You look nice.’</p><p>‘Thank you. It seemed like an appropriate choice, given the place.’</p><p>‘Thought you might’ve wondered what it felt like. A female form, I mean.’</p><p>Aziraphale considered this. ‘A little, I suppose.’</p><p>‘How is it?’</p><p>He shrugged. The movement made his chest heave, a sensation he still wasn’t quite used to. ‘Sweaty. Around certain areas.’</p><p>Crawly snorted. ‘Everyone loves a sweaty lady. Suppose you’re here for that Sappho?’</p><p>‘Yes – though I got the timing all wrong,’ Aziraphale sighed. ‘Off by almost a century!’</p><p>‘Just missed her,’ Crawly commented, clicking his tongue in sympathy.</p><p>Aziraphale smiled, raising his eyebrows in self-deprecation. Humans obviously wouldn’t have appreciated the struggle. It was nice to get it off his (enlarged) chest.<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a> A mischievous grin tugged at the serpent’s lips.</p><p>‘Shame. I heard she was a pretty cunning linguist.’</p><p>Aziraphale rolled his eyes, though a slight blush tinged his cheeks. ‘Her poems are beautiful. Thank goodness for the written word – they’ve just come up with it, over here. Marvellous little alphabet.’</p><p>‘That hers, then?’</p><p>Crawly was pointing at the tightly-bound scroll near Aziraphale’s hip. He’d been browsing it when the demon came, at which point he’d scrambled to roll it up and set it aside with all the nonchalance of a teenager seeing his first explicit mosaic.</p><p>‘Oh, this?’ his voice went an octave higher, and he casually slid the parchment out of view, behind his leg. ‘No, this is just a little something from, er. It’s from work.’</p><p>‘Since when does Gabriel mail you stuff?’ Crawly asked, raising an eyebrow.</p><p>‘I’m supposed to send it to him, actually.’ Aziraphale sighed. This couldn’t possibly qualify as lying, regardless of how expansively one chose to define it, but he found it hard nonetheless. More trouble than it was worth. ‘It’s the latest draft. Of the Book.’</p><p>This lit a match in Crawly’s head. ‘Oh. Oh! Already? What’s the new chapter called? Can I have a look?’</p><p>He was already reaching for it, excited to see if he had more cameos. Aziraphale had made the mistake, in the heat of an editorial crisis, of agreeing to Crawly’s offers of Biblical feedback. Ever since then, when their paths crossed, Aziraphale would “accidentally” let the newest book or two fall into Crawly’s hands. As it turned out, he was rather good at pointing out plot holes and suggesting ingenious plot twists,<a href="#_ftn3" id="_ftnref3" name="_ftnref3">[3]</a> and if the angel <em>happened</em> to hear these ideas and slip a couple of new lines into the latest draft, well, nobody was ever truly original, nowadays.</p><p>‘It’s called Leviticus,’ Aziraphale answered, allowing the scroll to be plucked from his side. ‘And it’s no Sappho, that much is certain.’</p><p>‘No good, then?’ Crawly frowned, opening up the papyrus and beginning to read.</p><p>‘Just bear in mind that I’m only the editor.’</p><p>Not that he cared what a demon thought about his hypothetical writing abilities. But he had his pride.</p><p>Though angels, even fallen ones, are quick readers, it still took Crawly a while to read the book from end to end. The sun drifted through the sky, kissed the Aegean, and was almost halfway down the horizon before he finished. Gaggles of Lady Glykera’s other favourite girls whispered when they passed by the bench, intrigued at the thin red-headed <em>man</em> intruding on their Lady’s most recent obsession. Aziraphale, for his part, hadn’t resisted reading over Crawly’s shoulder, and had shifted millimetre by millimetre until they were quite, <em>quite </em>close – so much so he jumped with a little squeak when Crawly turned to face him and they almost bonked foreheads.</p><p>‘”Thou shalt not lie with a man as with a woman,”’ Crawly said, underlining the words with his finger. ‘What does that even mean?’</p><p>‘I’m not… sure,’ Aziraphale admitted, composing himself. ‘I’ve tried to <em>suggest</em> the Almighty keep the Messages quite <em>clear</em>, but She’s been… out of sorts. Not very receptive to criticism.’</p><p>‘Don’t I know it.’</p><p>Aziraphale chose to ignore that, glancing away like he’d been distracted by a butterfly or a bird or another of the wonderful creatures God could create when She wasn’t in a strop. By the time he looked back at Crawly, the demon was busy scribbling on the parchment.</p><p>‘Crawly!’ he yelped, pulling the scroll away. ‘Really! I shouldn’t’ve let my guard down around a <em>demon</em>.’</p><p>‘You were never gonna send that Upstairs,’ Crawly said, mildly, with a dismissive wave of his bony hand. ‘Full of misspellings. Narrative’s bad. Rules don’t make sense.’</p><p>‘That’s not for you to say,’ Aziraphale huffed, finally setting eyes on Crawly’s addition to the classic 18:22, which now read: “Thou shalt not lie with a man as with a woman – you don’t wanna disappoint <em>him</em> too, love.”</p><p>Though he was still heated, Aziraphale couldn’t stop a chuckle escaping his lips, though he tried hard to disguise it by shaking his head in exasperation. Underneath the writing was a doodle of Crawly and Aziraphale, basic, but halfway recognisable.</p><p>The demon shrugged. ‘I got bored.’</p><p>‘I’ll thank you <em>not </em>to add on to the Book. You’ll get me in trouble.’</p><p>‘You should cut that verse, anyway. Humans’ll get the wrong idea,’ Crawly said, standing up. He dusted off his skirt, put his hands on his hips, and gestured at the scroll. ‘Don’t worry about it. Nobody’s gonna see that.’</p><p>But somebody did see that. Because a certain angel was loathe to destroy <em>any </em>books, even first drafts, this specific roll of parchment made its way into the hands of a particularly nimble-fingered pickpocket, who had enough good sense not to part with it. This good sense transferred down to the family line, and the scroll accompanied successive generations through triumphs, hardships, travels, always the good-luck charm stashed at the bottom of a knapsack, slipped into a rider’s belt, stuffed in a tall boot – until Johannes Durchdenwald, eminent guildsman and confirmed bachelor, willed the now <em>quite </em>decrepit item to the local monastery, where a singularly talented but not especially bright novice monk scrupulously copied down every word, taking the creative initiative to revamp Crawly’s original doodle in glorious full-colour Illumination.</p><p>Over two millennia later, browsing a collectors’ website for misprint sacred texts,<a href="#_ftn4" id="_ftnref4" name="_ftnref4">[4]</a> Aziraphale was shocked to discover the so-called Sassy Bible listed among the most sought-after items, particularly among gentlemen’s gentlemen with a taste for light sacrilege. He marvelled at the handsome illustration, which was extremely generous in its depiction of the both of them, and forwarded the link to Crowley with a smiley face emoji.</p><p><em>lol</em>, he answered.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Rome // 390 AD</strong>
</p><p>‘You heard the latest from the court?’</p><p>Aziraphale brought his cup back down to his lap, shaking his head. A rivulet of sweat trickled down his naked chest, over the slight swell of his stomach, before spreading into the already soaked towel resting on the angel’s lap. From the looks of it, he’d decided to make an Effort today, as was customary whenever they met at the <em>thermae</em>.</p><p>Which didn’t make Crowley appreciate it any less.</p><p>‘”We cannot tolerate the city of Rome, mother of all virtues,’” he quoted, smirking, ‘”being stained any longer by the contamination of male effeminacy, nor can we allow that agrarian strength be softly broken by the people.” They’re having Orientius round up all the rent boys.’</p><p>‘”Agrarian strength?”’ said Aziraphale. His eyebrows were almost at his hairline. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’</p><p>‘Dunno. Chaps’re so struck down with lust by <em>pulchros pueros</em> that farming’s gone to pot? I don’t keep up with countryside drama.’</p><p>He relaxed against the hot stone wall with a comfortable groan. Saunas suited his serpentine instincts just fine. From this new vantage point, he also enjoyed the rare privilege of seeing the angel from a below, appreciating how his body shone from steam and sweat. Aziraphale, for his part, was as cavalier as ever.</p><p>‘”Effeminacy” seems a popular scapegoat,’ he sighed. ‘Marcellinus said something similar in his chronicle. Taifali men succumbing to “unmentionable lust, to consume the flower of their youth in the polluted intercourse of those paramours.”</p><p>Crowley sipped his wine.  He didn’t know if it was Aziraphale’s words or the copious amount of sweetening lead in his drink, but his head felt fuzzy and his insides felt warm.<a href="#_ftn5" id="_ftnref5" name="_ftnref5">[5]</a> He cleared his throat, adjusted the way he sat.</p><p>‘End of an era, eh? Used to be all the rage, effeminacy. Remember Nero’s wedding to that fella, er…’</p><p>‘Pythagoras,’ Aziraphale provided, longingly. ‘What a party. Best pear soufflé I’ve <em>ever </em>had.’</p><p>‘S’truth.’ Another sip. ‘You up for a commendation?’</p><p>Aziraphale looked at him with genuine surprise. ‘A commendation?’</p><p>‘Well, this anti-sodomy faff, it’s all your lot, isn’t it? Leviticus and Romans in the Book. Sodom and Gomorrah.’</p><p>Aziraphale winced. ‘That was Sandalphon being far too eager. You know that episode wasn’t about effeminacy, it’s about –‘</p><p>‘—hospitality, I know.’ Crowley rolled his eyes. ‘Any excuse to ruin my fun. You think you miss your pear soufflé, I was positively raking in the temptations with the S&amp;G lot.’</p><p>‘The point is – I’ve had no hand in all… <em>that</em>. You know how humans are.’</p><p>‘So does the Almighty. She knows they’re fickle. Prone to misunderstandings – accidental or not. Might’ve tried being a little more –‘</p><p>‘—straight-forward, yes, yes. She was still finding out what worked best. It’s just part of –‘</p><p>‘The Plan,’ they both said. Aziraphale didn’t like Crowley’s tone, and Crowley didn’t like Aziraphale’s words, so they sat in tense silence, finishing their cups and quietly stewing. The men around them were wrapping up their baths, keen on getting home in time for the start of the <em>cena</em>.<a href="#_ftn6" id="_ftnref6" name="_ftnref6">[6]</a></p><p>Crowley rose to his feet, wrapping his towel around his waist.</p><p>‘It’s been good catching up,’ he said, stretching, enjoying the burn in his muscles. ‘Do it again soon.’</p><p>‘How long are you staying? There’s a wonderful place just off the –‘</p><p>‘Appreciate it, angel, but I’m off in the morning. Duty calls further West.’ He avoided Aziraphale’s eyes, scuffing the ground with his foot. ‘Tagging along with my boy’s <em>contubernium</em> when they start marching at dawn.’</p><p>He thought he might be met with a heavy sort of silence, and he was right. It wasn’t like he needed to <em>justify</em> himself – tempting a young <em>pater familias</em> away from his wife, setting him on a road to perdition, that was all par for the course. It’s what he <em>did</em>.</p><p>Aziraphale stood up, stacking Crowley’s discarded cup in his, and smiled benevolently at his colleague.</p><p>‘Well, we ought to rinse off, then!’</p><p>Despite the near radiance Aziraphale exuded with those words, the previously lively conversation fizzled out except for the occasional awkward remark. Crowley had resigned himself to parting on less than perfect terms until they were retrieving their clothes and the <em>therma</em> attendant handed him the little surprise he’d completely forgotten about.</p><p> ‘Hey!’ he called, trotting up to Aziraphale, gift in hand. ‘Got you something.’</p><p>‘That’s very good of you,’ said Aziraphale.</p><p>His tone was polite, but it wasn’t until he’d peeled away the wrapping paper that his eyes truly shone, a mixture of mirth and surprise that made Crowley’s heart thud.</p><p>‘Where did you find this?’ the angel said with a bright smile, opening the edition of Virgil’s <em>Eclogues</em> with something blasphemously close to reverence.</p><p>‘Been keeping it under my belt,’ Crowley replied, with affected nonchalance. ‘Thought you might not have it yet.’</p><p>‘I don’t!’<a href="#_ftn7" id="_ftnref7" name="_ftnref7">[7]</a></p><p>‘Turn over to <em>Eclogue</em> <em>2</em>,’ said Crowley.</p><p>When Aziraphale did, his grin grew larger, the corners of his eyes creased in delight.</p><p>The first page of each <em>Eclogue</em> was headed by a picture depicting a scene in the poem. Through a little cajoling and dream manipulation, Crowley managed to inspire the illustrator of this particular edition into giving Corydon red curls, suspiciously yellow eyes, and an ebony snake curled around his ankle, while Alexis had a pale blonde mane, a roundness about the features. It was a step up from Crowley’s own meagre artistic efforts back in Lesbos, for sure.</p><p>He grinned back at Aziraphale, and glimpsed the opening lines:</p><p>
  <em>The shepherd Corydon felt truest love</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For fair Alexis, his master’s joy,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yet held no hope of fondness returned</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Montevergine // 1263</strong>
</p><p>It was with great interest that Aziraphale followed the nuns into the makeshift hut. He hadn’t heard anything from Upstairs about a new saint or martyr in these parts, but there was <em>so </em>much going on, what with the Crusades, the new religious orders popping up left and right – and had the new millennium really started two centuries ago already? – there was a good chance he’d simply forgotten. If, as most often was the case, this “miracle” consisted of another common fraudster or deep misunderstanding of the natural world, well, it’d be good for a sensible chuckle.</p><p>The last thing he expected to see in the shack was Crowley, in a nun’s habit, passed out on a cosy grass patch. Gorgeous flower arrangements bordered his skinny frame, and melted wax on surrounding rocks evidenced the unwise use of candles in this extremely flammable environment. Oh dear.</p><p>‘Doesn’t she look peaceful?’ the girl to Aziraphale’s right murmured, obvious reverence in her voice. ‘They say Sister Qetesh has slept continuously for nigh on forty years, but her countenance remains bright and youthful. She needs no water, no food.’ A sigh. ‘Before we built her this house, she seemed untroubled by rain or sun. A soul in perfect harmony.’</p><p>‘A soul in perfect harmony,’ the other girl echoed.</p><p>Well.</p><p>‘Remarkable, Sisters,’ Aziraphale said, with appropriate wonder. ‘Would I be allowed to speak to her alone, perhaps? I’ve yet to meet a living saint on my travels…’</p><p>‘Of course, Sister Rachel!’ For, indeed, he’d chosen to blend in with the nuns for ease of access to the various relics of the region, and he felt he ought to give this corporation another try. ‘There are candles in the box on the right. Please take your time. We’ll have lunch ready at the Sanctuary when you return.’</p><p>He saw them off with a beatific smile, which he managed to hold until the exact moment they closed the door. Alone, he jogged over to Crowley, holding his skirts up with one hand.</p><p>‘Crowley!’ he whispered urgently. ‘Wake up!’</p><p>Nothing, naturally. If he could sleep through a snowstorm, he wouldn’t budge for this. With a huff, Aziraphale knelt beside him, leaning close. Crowley really did look peaceful. It gave Aziraphale the odd sensation of catching a glimpse of what he’d looked like before he Fell – but he couldn’t let his thoughts wander.</p><p>‘Crowley!’ he said, louder this time. ‘Please!’</p><p>Instinctively, he gripped Crowley’s hand, squeezing it, infusing it with just the tiniest flutter of a miracle – which, of course, felt like an electric spark to the fingers for a demon, and soon had Crowley’s eyelids pop open.</p><p>‘Aziraphale? What’sss the big idea?’ he hissed, groggy, weakly trying to pull his hand away. But Aziraphale held firm.</p><p>‘You fell asleep!’</p><p>‘I know that!’</p><p>‘Listen! They turned you into a shrine!’</p><p>Crowley blinked, reptilian pupils almost egg-shaped in the shade of the hut. He looked around himself, taking in the bed of flowers, the makeshift altar, the walls and roof that definitely hadn’t been there before.</p><p>‘Huh,’ he said, frowning. ‘Only meant to lie down for a kip. How long’ve I been –?’</p><p>‘Forty years!’ Aziraphale said. ‘The nuns up the hill have been taking care of you.’</p><p>‘Oh. That’s nice of them. I was meant to hang about the Sanctuary for a couple dozen Sapphic temptations – but if they’ve been worshipping a demon for almost half a century, I guess it evens out.’</p><p>Fiddlesticks. Aziraphale would have to deal with that later.</p><p>‘Thought I’d smelled you,’ Crowley mumbled. ‘Right before waking up.’</p><p>Aziraphale sighed. ‘What if they’d – sprinkled holy water on you? Consecrated the ground? You really <em>must </em>be more careful!’</p><p>‘Aw. Didn’t know you cared.’</p><p>Crowley’s eyes were half-lidded, a little smirk playing on his lips. Aziraphale was suddenly very aware of their clasped hands, and slackened his hold to let go – only for Crowley to grip tighter. Aziraphale’s annoyance subsided, almost entirely, replaced with the kind of tenderness he’d been made for.</p><p>‘Of course I <em>care</em>. I can’t help <em>caring</em>.’</p><p>‘Even for a demon?’</p><p>‘Especially for a demon.’</p><p>Crowley watched him, inquisitive. Up close, there was the faintest whiff of sulphur, a scent Aziraphale remembered being much stronger when they first came to Earth, thousands of years ago. Would it vanish completely, given time? Crowley said he’d smelled him. Aziraphale wondered what that entailed. Asking would be too much. Too strange.</p><p>‘What’re you doing around here?’ Crowley asked, snapping Aziraphale out of his reverie. ‘Guessing you didn’t know you’d find me snoozing in a field.’</p><p>‘No. There was a…’ he hesitated. ‘… a miracle I performed here, a few years ago.’</p><p>‘How many years ago?’</p><p>‘About seven?’</p><p>‘And you didn’t come say hi to me?’</p><p>‘I didn’t see you! It was just a flyby sort of thing, I didn’t even stop by the Sanctuary. I was going north – it was winter, snow thick as you like, and I found these two men, almost boys still, tied to a tree. Their lips were blue. They… they’d been driven out of town because they were in love, left to die. Can you imagine? Because of <em>love</em>?’</p><p>Crowley stayed quiet.</p><p>‘Well. It obviously wouldn’t do. So I melted the snow. I cut the rope. I gave them warmth – just something to tide them over until morning. As soon as they were free, they embraced. They were so <em>happy</em>.’ His cheeks grew bright red. ‘And then they kissed, and, well, they evidently felt quite passionate. So the cold definitely wasn’t an issue.’</p><p>There are a lot of things Crowley could have said to wind the angel up, but truth be told, he was having a good enough time basking in the closeness, enjoying the feeling of his cool skin against Aziraphale’s where their hands were intertwined.</p><p>‘Anyway,’ Aziraphale continued, ‘I wanted to check up on the area. See if the miracle changed any minds. They chalk it up to the Madonna, which is fair enough. Seems to have planted at seed, at least.’</p><p>‘Feel a bit guilty, do you?’ he murmured.</p><p>‘More as time goes on. This particular <em>obsession</em> humans have must be at least partly to blame on shoddy editing by yours truly. But I won’t take all the blame. I swear it wasn’t like this until just a few hundred years ago.’</p><p>‘It comes and goes. People are fickle.’</p><p>‘Rather.’</p><p>Crickets chirped somewhere outside the hut. Though it was a sturdy little building, the planks making up the walls were spaced widely enough that thin strips of light ran the length of Aziraphale and Crowley’s bodies.</p><p>‘So,’ the demon said, and Aziraphale could feel his warm breath on his face. ‘When those lads got <em>busy</em>. You stick around?’</p><p>The blush returned. ‘I – !’</p><p>‘Oh, Holy Mary, mother of God!’</p><p>Heads whirling round to the owner of the voice, Aziraphale and Crowley saw a novice nun with her hands up to her mouth, eyes so wide they could roll right out of their sockets. The flame at the end of the long, thin reed she held between her fingers was beginning to blacken her white headdress, and Aziraphale quietly miracled it away.</p><p>‘Sister Rachel!’ the nun shouted. ‘We didn’t give you fire for the candles! So Mother Superior sent me with – and now Sister Qetesh is – Jesus, Joseph, and all the saints!’</p><p>With that, she turned on her heel and made a mad dash for the Sanctuary. Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other.</p><p>‘Well,’ said the demon, ‘I guess we won’t have to sneak away in the night.’</p><p>Aziraphale took his hand back.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Amboise // 1519</strong>
</p><p>Crowley spotted Aziraphale as soon as he walked in.</p><p>For once, wearing all-black made Crowley blend in with the crowd. Funereal customs had been trending in that direction for a little while. The angel’s choice of lighter shades didn’t cause offence, however, not among a bohemian crowd like this.</p><p>Crowley watched him pick his way through artists and aristocrats, until he was close enough to the body to pay proper respects. Leonardo da Vinci lay stretched out in the centre of the room, in a rather monastic get-up, white beard and hair framing his ashen face. Aziraphale’s gaze softened as he lay his hand over the dead man’s clasped fingers, and Crowley saw the faintest glow illuminate them both – paging Gabriel to ensure safe passage into Heaven, Crowley wagered.</p><p>Aziraphale finished with a quick kiss to Leonardo’s forehead, just in time to greet a weeping Salai. Melzi, Leonardo’s other main pupil/lover, stood off to the side of the room, hard-faced and tightly wound. Crowley caught his eye and nodded. Melzi rolled his eyes at the display Salai was making beside the body, while Aziraphale awkwardly patted him on the back, whispering encouraging words.</p><p>When he was finally able to step away, Crowley waved him over.</p><p>‘Crowley! I didn’t know you knew Leonardo,’ said Aziraphale, warmly shaking his friend’s hand. They <em>were</em> friends now, weren’t they? They’d never explicitly discussed it, but…</p><p>‘I had a feeling you might. Didn’t think you’d show up for this, though.’ Regrettably, he withdrew his hand from the angel’s, instantly missing the softness against his own palm. ‘Thought you were in the Low Countries? With that, er, that philosopher chap.’</p><p>‘Erasmus? No, he moved to Sienna a while back.’ Aziraphale waved at someone across the room, smiling. Salai continued the waterworks. ‘I was just coming back from seeing him, actually. Luck of the draw, I suppose. Well, inasmuch as a funeral <em>can</em> be lucky.’</p><p>‘Lucky for us,’ Crowley said.</p><p>Aziraphale looked at him, and his smile didn’t waver. ‘That’s true. I haven’t seen you in such a long time! Good thing they’re not holding the wake in a church.’</p><p>‘Small favours. Look what I got.’</p><p>Crowley pulled a painted bamboo tube out from where it was tucked into his belt and shook a rolled piece of parchment out of it, passing it to Aziraphale. The angel carefully unrolled it, revealing an umber sketch of the Mona Lisa, perfect down to that famous little smile.<a href="#_ftn8" id="_ftnref8" name="_ftnref8">[8]</a></p><p>‘How delightful,’ said Aziraphale.</p><p>‘I was there when he drew that,’ Crowley supplied. ‘Salai got the finished portrait. Said I could have this. Sienna.’</p><p>‘Pardon?’</p><p>‘That’s burnt sienna,’ he jabbed a thin finger at the picture, rather unnecessarily indicating the colour. ‘You, coming back from Sienna. Funny old world.’</p><p>‘Oh! Yes, quite.’</p><p>He handed the sketch back to Crowley, and the two stood by for a few moments, taking in the people all around them. The demon had already picked up on a couple of leads for potential temptations, but he found it hard to focus on work, and not just because of the circumstances, or his proximity to Aziraphale. Well, it did have to do with the latter. A little. It was stupid. But…</p><p>‘So,’ Crowley began. ‘This Erasmus.’</p><p>‘Brilliant scholar,’ Aziraphale said, clearly proud. ‘It only took a tiny nudge to steer him to religion, and he’s done nothing but good work.’</p><p>‘That’s what I’ve heard. And, er… you and him, then. You’re close?’</p><p>‘He asks for my thoughts when he’s working on something. We get along.’</p><p>‘Ah-hah. And you…?’</p><p>Aziraphale looked at him, smiling, curious. Crowley winked. Aziraphale didn’t react. Remembering his sunglasses, Crowley clicked his tongue in frustration and did a quick jerk-off motion with his right hand. Aziraphale batted his hand down, outraged.</p><p>‘Crowley! We’re at a funeral!’</p><p>‘Well, he won’t mind, will he?’ Crowley gestured to Leonardo’s supine body.</p><p>‘All the same. There’s a room full of people here to mourn him.’</p><p>‘Fine.’</p><p>He stared at the angel.</p><p>Aziraphale stared back.</p><p>‘What?’</p><p>‘Well, are you and Erasmus –‘</p><p>‘Oh – really,’ he huffed. ‘He’s spoken for, mad about a monk he met back in seminary. I keep an <em>eye </em>on him. That’s all. Anyway, angels don’t – we have no need of such…’ A vague hand flap. ‘… earthly delights.’</p><p>‘Mate, you’re all about earthly delights. You collect books. <em>Human</em> books. You joined the Portuguese on the maritime route to India just so you could try curry.’</p><p>‘Yes, alright,’ Aziraphale grumbled. ‘How do you think <em>that</em> went down Upstairs?’</p><p>Crowley raised an eyebrow.</p><p>‘It’s a long journey, Crowley. The sea was… inclement. I may have… <em>helped</em> out rather more than I was supposed to. Some encouraging winds and waves and whatnot. It ended up getting on Gabriel’s radar…’</p><p>‘Did you get a bollocking from the Boss?’</p><p>‘Not the <em>Boss</em>.’ Pause. ‘But yes.’</p><p>Crowley took a moment to think, which wasn’t that easy. It had only been a few thousand years since he Fell. Keeping a level head about all this could be challenge, not least when it involved Aziraphale and… other feelings.<a href="#_ftn9" id="_ftnref9" name="_ftnref9">[9]</a></p><p>‘You know sex isn’t anything to be ashamed of,’ he said.</p><p>‘I know <em>that</em>. For <em>humans</em>. It’s different. For us,’ Aziraphale said lamely.</p><p>‘What does “different” even mean?’</p><p>‘That it’s wrong.’</p><p>‘That’s what they said about him.’</p><p>Crowley pollicated the corpse. Salai had moved on now, talking Melzi’s ear off now. Poor bastard.</p><p>‘You know he got charged with “sodomy?” Twice!’ Crowley scoffed. ‘I mean, granted, it was <em>true</em> – I know that for a <em>fact<a href="#_ftn10" id="_ftnref10" name="_ftnref10"><strong>[10]</strong></a></em> – but if he was the kind of guy to follow the rules, he wouldn’t have been… <em>him</em>.’</p><p>‘It’s different,’ Aziraphale said, more firmly. He looked tired, unhappy. ‘Don’t let’s argue about this now. There are other concerns. And I – I don’t think you’d understand.’</p><p>That stung. He had to know Crowley <em>did</em> understand. His knowledge could be read in the darkness of his wings. He was about to say as much when the whole room stood at attention, parting like the Red Sea for a sorrowful King Francoys, come to see his proudest protégé one last time.</p><p>Crowley lost sight of the angel in the commotion. When things quietened down, he was nowhere to be found.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>London // 1726</strong>
</p><p>If one were to peruse the records of the Old Bailey, one might chance upon the following passage:</p><p>
  <em>Mother Clap’s House bore the publick Character of a Place of Rendezvous for Sodomites (…) Mother Clap was taken up in February last, along with several dozen Chaps found on the Premises, an abundance of whom were released upon Bail being put in by a certain Master Crowley…</em>
</p><p>This certain Master Crowley wouldn’t soon be found, despite the best efforts of His Majesty’s finest, for they neglected to search on board the ship currently making its way out of the port of Brighton, skimming the waves at far more knots than the captain had ever experienced before.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Edo // 1727</strong>
</p><p>The <em>yunomi</em> felt nice in his hand, exuding warmth like a living being, but varnished and smooth against the skin. Aziraphale lifted it, supporting the bottom of the cup with his the fingers of his other hand, blew air out of pursed lips,<a href="#_ftn11" id="_ftnref11" name="_ftnref11">[11]</a> and supped deeply.</p><p>Delightful. Nakamura-san always managed to outdo himself where tea was concerned. Aziraphale had noticed the <em>looks</em> the teahouse manager gave him, of course. He knew what <em>kind</em> of teahouse this was. But his host had yet to make any untoward advances. He offered the fair foreigner cheap room and board, along with a selection of local delicacies and a variety of books. In exchange, all he asked was that Aziraphale spend a few hours each day in the main room of his establishment, hidden in the corner between a screen and a wall, with enough of a crack to let him see the front door and slip out the back in case the police paid a visit.</p><p>The idea was to attract customers with the promise of a real, live <em>gaijin</em>, win them over with quality food and drink, and offer any men who clicked the use of a room – for a small fee, naturally – should they wish to become better acquainted. It was risky – not least because simply <em>being</em> a foreigner warranted the death penalty, something the angel had discovered the hard way when he first arrived on Japanese shores – but it was paying off, and Nakamura-san was really rather put out at his guest planning to scarper under the cover of darkness in a few days.</p><p>The shop door opened. Aziraphale set down his cup, ready to amaze with his excellent command of the native language, and leaned back to check out the clientele – only to look up the newcomer’s ballooning <em>hakama</em> bottoms, up his dark and intricately patterned top, and at the familiar face of his demonic friend. A few days earlier than planned, but that was quite alright!</p><p>Nakamura gingerly approached Crowley, who was busy eyeing the place from behind his dark glasses.</p><p>‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said, peering up at the tall<a href="#_ftn12" id="_ftnref12" name="_ftnref12">[12]</a> stranger. ‘I believe I know who you’re here for.’</p><p>‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Crowley purred, ever so slightly brushing the back of his hand against Nakamura’s lapel. ‘If you’re a man on a mission, however, lead the way.’</p><p>There was a distinct ruddy colour on the proprietor’s cheeks when he led Crowley around the screen. Aziraphale thought it was sweet. Nakamura shot him a covert wink while Crowley took his seat on the floor, and zipped off before his guest could respond.</p><p>‘How you find yourself in these places, I do <em>not </em>know,’ Crowley said. He sat cross-legged, unwieldy limbs pretzled into something that seemed anatomically improbable. Aziraphale, true to form, had mastered the art of <em>seiza</em> (straight spine, knees tight, bottom resting on the feet), and found the formal sitting posture really rather comfortable.</p><p>‘They seem to find <em>me</em>,’ Aziraphale replied. ‘Well. On the second try. Crucifixion doesn’t get any better with time, I’ll tell you what. Faff getting sent back here instead of England, too.’</p><p>He sipped his tea, and smiled brightly.</p><p>‘But you and I set a date, and I’d be dam… I’d hate to leave you waiting.’</p><p>‘Appreciate it. Had a wander around the neighbourhood, reckoned I’d do a few temptations to justify my presence.’ Crowley peered at Aziraphale over the rim of his glasses, black pupil just a slit in the dark room.<a href="#_ftn13" id="_ftnref13" name="_ftnref13">[13]</a> ‘Didn’t think you’d set up shop in the <em>pleasure quarters</em>. Way too much competition. What’s a demon to do?’</p><p>‘Think of it as a challenge!’ Aziraphale said. ‘I didn’t think you’d be here so soon, anyway. I thought we’d only be here briefly before moving to the Dutch port.’</p><p>‘Yeah.’</p><p>Crowley crossed his arms and leaned on the low table. He seemed distracted, never keeping his eyes on his friend for more than a few seconds. Shifty – and not in his usual way.</p><p>‘Crowley? Is everything alright?’</p><p>He sighed. ‘I was trying to think of the best way to say this. But might be best to just be out with it. Mother Clap’s banged up.’</p><p>Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open, as though eager to speak, but he closed his lips again after a moment of silence. His fingers closed around his cup, seeking comfort in the warmth. Crowley chose to continue, pretending to be casual:</p><p>‘There was a raid. Place shut down, of course. I got some of the mollies out. Posted bail, I mean.<a href="#_ftn14" id="_ftnref14" name="_ftnref14">[14]</a> Said I was a friend of yours and that they’d better keep a low profile, maybe visit family out of town.’ He looked at his nails. ‘You owe me. Couple dozen temptations should do it.’</p><p>But Aziraphale didn’t react, and when Crowley looked at his face, there was real consternation there. Confusion, almost.</p><p>‘It was only a matter of time,’ Crowley said. His voice was softer, now. ‘You helped those lads out while you could. Almost as much of a den mother as Maggie Clap herself.’</p><p>‘They weren’t… <em>doing </em>anything. Not Clap, not any of the men who met thanks to her. It was all away from the eyes of – <em>reputable</em> society.’ And Crowley heard venom in that word, more than he’d expect of a decidedly unFallen angel. ‘I knew it wouldn’t last forever. Human affairs never do. But it was a place where they could be safe. Clap understood that. She wanted to help. And now…’</p><p>Aziraphale sighed, and drained the last of his drink, probably wishing it was something a little stronger than green tea. That could be arranged. Crowley snapped his fingers, and Nakamura popped his head round the screen.</p><p>‘Sake, my good man,’ he said.</p><p>Nakamura nodded and shimmered away. Uncannily quiet. Probably how he kept afloat running an establishment for men who enjoyed each other’s company <em>and</em> eagerly housed foreigners without losing his head – literally.</p><p>‘You know, you shouldn’t feel guilty,’ Crowley said, gently. ‘It’s not your fault.’</p><p>‘Just my “side’s” fault, as you like to put it.’</p><p>Ouch.</p><p>‘That’s just banter and you know it, Aziraphale. You don’t have a – a debt to mollies because of what someone else wrote in the Book. You already do your best.’</p><p>A pause. Through the thin walls of the teahouse, they could hear people milling around outside, looking for a good time. It was the late afternoon. Nakamura’s customers would start trickling in soon.</p><p>‘It’s more than that, isn’t it?’ Crowley asked. ‘It’s not just responsibility, or guilt. You <em>like</em> these people.’</p><p>‘I like everybody. That’s what angels do. Love.’</p><p>‘Love, huh?’</p><p>Nakamura sidled up with a second <em>yunomi</em> cup and a decanter of sake. As he poured the wine into Aziraphale’s cup, Crowley inspected his own with a small frown.</p><p>‘We’re drinking booze out of tea cups?’</p><p>‘This is a humble teahouse,’ Nakamura said, pleasantly. He tipped the neck of the decanter over Crowley’s cup next. ‘Perhaps we’ll be able to afford fine <em>sakazuki</em>  or <em>ochoko </em>for a more aristocratic experience, one day, but for now…’</p><p>Crowley pushed his full cup beside Aziraphale’s, comparing them. ‘And why’s mine smaller?’</p><p>Nakamura’s smile took on a devilish quality.<a href="#_ftn15" id="_ftnref15" name="_ftnref15">[15]</a> ‘They’re a married couple. <em>Meoto yunomi</em>.’ He pointed at Aziraphale’s cup, ‘the husband,’ and at Crowley’s, ‘the wife. Let me know if you need anything else, gentlemen.’</p><p>He was gone in a flash.</p><p>Crowley brought his cup back to his side, with a huff. ‘Well, that’s bloody marvellous, isn’t it?’</p><p>‘Well, it’s an easy mistake,’ Aziraphale said, after taking a sip.</p><p>‘Thanks a lot! Why am <em>I </em>the wife? More to the point – why does the wife get shafted on how much plonk she gets?!’</p><p>Aziraphale smiled, just a little.<a href="#_ftn16" id="_ftnref16" name="_ftnref16">[16]</a> ‘Don’t make a fuss, dear. We have a whole bottle to get through and you’re free to refill whenever you like.’</p><p>‘You don’t have to tell me twice,’ Crowley said. He threw back the contents of his cup, let out a satisfied sigh, and grabbed the sake.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>London // 1955</strong>
</p><p>Being a demon wasn’t easy.</p><p>On one hand, Crowley had a <em>reputation</em> to maintain, both Above and Below, as an agent of chaos and anarchy. Order was, traditionally, very much the remit of his celestial counterpart.<a href="#_ftn17" id="_ftnref17" name="_ftnref17">[17]</a></p><p>On the other hand, you couldn’t get much more evil than working for the British foreign intelligence agency, no matter how technically legal and by-the-books their activities were.<a href="#_ftn18" id="_ftnref18" name="_ftnref18">[18]</a></p><p>While Pestilence was in talks of retiring altogether, and Famine was resting on the laurels of the past decades, War was as busy as ever. Still coming off the high of the Second World War, she’d eased off on outright destruction in Crowley’s part of the world, opting instead for the different thrill of mounting nuclear tension, tightening the string ‘til it threatened to snap.</p><p>With the imminent threat of Armageddon, the First and Second worlds wisely decided to laser-focus their efforts on unearthing the hidden threat in their ranks: The Homosexual.</p><p>The Homosexual, according to conventional wisdom, was a liability to King and country. In addition to an inborn duplicitous nature, there was the fact of their vulnerability to blackmail. If A Homosexual in possession of important information were to wade into the sweet morass of a honeypot, for instance, what would stop them from spilling state secrets? The alternative was exposure, a wrecked life, and a taxpayer-funded vacation in the clink. Best to root them out before things came to a head.<a href="#_ftn19" id="_ftnref19" name="_ftnref19">[19]</a></p><p>Of course, awareness of this vulnerability meant awareness of the same vulnerability behind enemy lines, which, in turn, meant exploiting it, using a small army of men ready and willing to nobly undertake the ungrateful task of seducing wretched communist scum.<a href="#_ftn20" id="_ftnref20" name="_ftnref20">[20]</a> This suited Crowley just fine. It allowed him to schedule regular Temptations around a busy schedule while enjoying the title of Professional Sex Spy.</p><p>Granted, most of these MI6 dalliances didn’t conclude with him and Aziraphale sharing a bottle of bubbly (or three) in a plush suite at the Savoy.</p><p>The angel sat on the covers of the expansive bed, in shirtsleeves, shoes kicked off near the bedside cabinet. Though he’d fallen for the style of the past decade, he was never much one for trends, and his hair remained free of styling grease, fluffed up in a halo around his face.</p><p>Crowley peered at him from below. He had his feet crossed at the ankle, resting up against the headboard, clutching the bottle like a knife stabbed in his stomach. Maybe by the time they’d drained this one, Crowley would have acquired the social grace to casually sling an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, touch that golden head of hair he’d been itching to ruffle for going on six millennia,<a href="#_ftn21" id="_ftnref21" name="_ftnref21">[21]</a> and oh, would you look at that, we’re sitting on this convenient bed and we have the room booked for the night, isn’t that something?</p><p>Yeah. Right.</p><p>‘This was practically Oscar’s second home, you know,’ murmured Aziraphale, eyes hooded and a little absent. He’d never quite coped with Wilde’s pillorying and exile. He’d visited him in Italy and France, but the poet was never the same. The wicked spirit that made him sparkle and shimmer had well and truly been snuffed. ‘Had a room set aside for him. “Meet me at the Savoy.”’</p><p>‘Hm. Funny then. That MI6 are using the place for this kind of… entrapment.’</p><p>‘It’s not really that funny.’</p><p>‘Yeah, no. Not funny ha-ha. Funny peculiar.’ Crowley put an arm behind his neck to prop himself up and took a generous swig of champagne. ‘Queer.’</p><p>‘Ah. Jolly good.’</p><p>A pause. Aziraphale plucked the bottle off Crowley and downed a couple glugs. Crowley admired the pale line of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple moved. These little physical details never ceased to fascinate him, least of all in Aziraphale. They made his heart feel tight, and that was another remarkable aspect of human embodiment that beguiled him, even though it didn’t feel very good at all.</p><p>‘Crowley.’</p><p>‘Yeah?’</p><p>‘I know you’re a demon… but, well.’ Aziraphale nervously fiddled with the bottle, cradling it like an infant. ‘How can you… <em>blackmail </em>these people like this when you know –‘</p><p>‘Hey, hey.’ Crowley shot up. ‘I don’t <em>blackmail</em> anyone, angel. I work for the Big Man Downstairs. The human stuff’s just…’ He gestured. ‘… a side gig. Like the nightclub. I do my tempting, and I get out.’</p><p>Aziraphale frowned. ‘Doesn’t MI6 notice you don’t get any results?’</p><p>‘Doesn’t the <em>KGB</em> notice <em>you</em> don’t results?!’</p><p>Now, it’s important to note Aziraphale <em>wasn’t </em>a Sex Spy. That would be completely unbecoming. What wasn’t unbecoming, apparently, was collaborating with the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics to trade rare texts and keep expanding his collection of Cyrillic literature.<a href="#_ftn22" id="_ftnref22" name="_ftnref22">[22]</a></p><p>Aziraphale pursed his lips, processing the question through a tipsy haze. The liquid level in the bottle rose by about an inch, as he sobered up just a smidge to think it through.</p><p>‘Oh!’ he said, brightly. ‘I don’t work for the KGB. I work with the State Committee of the Arts! Though I think they’re called the Ministry of Culture now. It’s hard to keep track.’</p><p>‘But you contact them through the KGB.’</p><p>‘That’s hardly <em>working with them</em>. I’ve sent letters for donkey’s years, but I don’t <em>work with</em> the Royal Mail.’</p><p>Crowley crossed his arms. ‘How come you don’t care about the Russkis’ views on religion?’</p><p>‘Well, nobody’s perfect.’</p><p>Rolling his eyes, Crowley snatched the wine and drained the last of its contents, not at <em>all</em> thinking about the fact that he was drinking champagne that had just apparated after technically being inside Aziraphale’s body.</p><p>‘My point is,’ he breathed, tossing the bottle aside as Aziraphale grabbed the fourth one they’d ordered from the ice bucket near the bed, ‘you’re not just trading pamphlets with the Motherland, or I wouldn’t’ve been sent to sleep with you.’</p><p>‘Quite.’ Aziraphale was probably blushing, but he was pretty flushed when he drank at the best of times. ‘You know I go for tea at the Houses of Parliament, because Lord Huxtable’s frightfully interested in –‘ He cleared his throat as Crowley made the universal motion for hurrying along. ‘Yes, alright. Well, sometimes, one overhears Things, inconsequential Things, and one might sometimes slip up and mention those Things in conversation with one’s handlers when sending off or receiving a parcel.’</p><p>‘Not <em>that</em> inconsequential, evidently.’</p><p>Aziraphale pressed around the top of the champagne bottle with practised movements, sending the cork flying with a loud pop, where it instantly smashed through the ceiling lamp. Crowley repaired it with a miraculous movement that was just as practised.</p><p>‘What they do with my Things is none of my business. I’m just a humble bookseller,’ said Aziraphale, with a grateful nod. ‘Anyway, that’s beside the point. You didn’t answer my question.’</p><p>‘Of course MI6 <em>notices </em>I never grass anyone up. Or they would. But it’s nothing a little positive thinking can’t fix.’</p><p>He gestured at the fixed lamp.</p><p>‘I overfill my temptation quota all the time, now. Hell doesn’t mind a little recurring miracle.’</p><p>The relief was evident on Aziraphale’s face. Crowley smirked.</p><p>‘Don’t worry, angel,’ he said, patting Aziraphale’s knee. ‘I like queers too. Got enough to deal with as it is.’</p><p>Aziraphale’s body was warm to the touch, even through fabric, and it was a chore for Crowley to take his hand off Aziraphale’s leg. They didn’t touch much, not unless they needed to, and he was worried he’d broken some sort of unspoken rule. Though he smiled, Aziraphale wasn’t quite meeting Crowley’s eyes.</p><p>‘I thought…’ Aziraphale paused. ‘I thought things were starting to look up for them, around the turn of the century. John was doing such good work over here, and even with what happened to Oscar, I thought love would win out.’</p><p>‘You were so hopeful. After visiting Germany.’ Crowley sighed. ‘Meeting Magnus. Before the whole country went to pot. And now there’s this paranoia spreading out of the States – you hear about this? The Lavender Scare? They’re clearing out army ranks ‘cause they think fags can’t fight. Someone ought to tell ‘em about the Sacred Band of Thebes.’</p><p>‘150 couples, each man inspired to fight harder for the sake of his lover.’</p><p>‘Right? And now things’re like <em>this</em>. Good grief.’</p><p>After a moment’s silence, Aziraphale passed him the bottle, and refused it when Crowley made to hand it back after a healthy swig.</p><p>‘I ought to leave soon,’ he said, apologetic. ‘I don’t think I fancy my chances of finding a taxi if I wait much longer.’</p><p>‘Room’s booked for the night,’ Crowley blurted out. The words were up in the air, now, so he could only double down. ‘Bed’s big enough. If you want to share.’ Pause. ‘With me.’</p><p>Silence. Crowley could feel angelic eyes boring straight through his skull. His heart was doing that fluttery thing human bodies were so fond of – that feeling he’d long got used to, being around Aziraphale.</p><p>‘Crowley.’ A soft voice. Crowley looked up, hopeful, but Aziraphale’s features showed only concern. Doubt. ‘I, er, I’ve been wanting to say –‘</p><p>He cut himself off.</p><p>‘What?’ said Crowley, quickly. ‘What do you want to sssay?’</p><p>Aziraphale seemed startled by the question, by the sibilant note on that last word. He cleared his throat, unnecessarily, and swung his feet onto the floor to put his shoes back on.</p><p>‘Nevermind. I’m sorry.’</p><p>‘Angel –‘</p><p>He reached out, but Aziraphale was across the room already. He wasn’t <em>that</em> fast, and Crowley wasn’t <em>that</em> drunk. Was he miracling himself a swift escape?</p><p>Before Crowley could think any more, Aziraphale was already halfway out the door.</p><p>‘It was lovely seeing you! Let’s do this again.’ A smile, nervous. ‘Well. The drinking, I mean. Not so much the spying. Have a good night, Crowley.’</p><p>The door to the room opened and shut, and Crowley was alone.<a href="#_ftn23" id="_ftnref23" name="_ftnref23">[23]</a> Drunk and alone. He wasn’t quite sure what had just happened, but he didn’t like it, and a swimming head only made it worse. He shut his eyes, gritted his teeth.</p><p>On the floor, empty bottles filled up once more, and wept onto the carpet.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>1996 // London</strong>
</p><p>Rainbow flags billowed high in the air, red ribbons rested over every hammering heart. The usual exuberance of the yearly Pride march enjoyed the extra boost of recent scientific success – triple combination treatment had AIDS deaths in freefall. The relief was palpable, obvious in joyous tears and spirited embraces and passionate kisses. Lingering taboos about touch were slipping. Downtown London overflowed with love, which was a nice change from the usual vibe, where people’d glass you soon as look at you.<a href="#_ftn24" id="_ftnref24" name="_ftnref24">[24]</a></p><p>From the first floor of the bookshop, Crowley and Aziraphale watched the crowds bustle through Soho over a cup of freshly-brewed chai. Crowley was sprawled out on a beat-up armchair, one foot on the ground and the other leg hooked over the seat’s arm, trying very hard not to move to avoid the awful squeak of leather trousers on leather upholstery.  He’d brought out the old leather jacket he’d worn in his Punk phase, embellished with a back piece in the shape of a pink triangle, the likes of which adorned thousands of banners and shirts outside at that moment. His skinny frame was visible through his black mesh shirt, offering enough of a glimpse to titillate. Aziraphale found himself having to quite resolutely avert his gaze.<a href="#_ftn25" id="_ftnref25" name="_ftnref25">[25]</a> His own attire was decidedly less Proud, though he’d happily allowed a passing young man to daub glitter on his cheekbones while he stood on his doorstep, waiting for Crowley.</p><p>‘Saw your banner,’ said Crowley. ‘Don’t think it’s shifted since ’72.’</p><p>Aziraphale smiled proudly. A.Z. Fell had sponsored London Pride since its first iteration, and an understated thank you label adorned the main parade car still.</p><p>‘Yes,’ he replied, refilling his cup, ‘it’s a paltry sum compared to the corporate backers they’re starting to attract, but it’s rather nice to still be included.’</p><p>‘Well, they look after their own.’ Crowley shrugged. ‘Or who they think are their own.’</p><p>Aziraphale sipped his tea. There was an uncomfortable thump in his chest. He was used to a rapidly beating heart when he read something particularly stirring, witnessed a true act of selflessness (and, for a few decades now, saw Crowley). This bizarre mix of trepidation, desire, and apprehension, however – he was still getting used to it, and he didn’t like it.<a href="#_ftn26" id="_ftnref26" name="_ftnref26">[26]</a></p><p>‘Crowley.’</p><p>‘Hm?’</p><p>Aziraphale delicately laid down his cup. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.’</p><p>‘Like what?’ Crowley was busy worrying a crack in the armchair with a black-lacquered fingernail.</p><p>‘It’s rather a… well, it’s a bit of an odd one, I’m afraid.’</p><p>He stopped picking. Aziraphale could see his golden eyes over the rim of his dark glasses, pupils razor-thin in the light of day. The angel locked his fingers together, and he felt his face heat up.</p><p>‘I’ve been thinking of how to tell you since… oh, the ‘40s? Perhaps? I almost did that night at the Savoy, but –‘</p><p>‘Aziraphale.’</p><p>The deeply unpleasant extended squeak caused by Crowley shifting in his seat to sit upright should have cramped his style, but he managed to play it off by ignoring it completely. Instead, he plucked his glasses off, blinked a couple of times, and hung them off the collar of his top,<a href="#_ftn27" id="_ftnref27" name="_ftnref27">[27]</a> gazing intently at Aziraphale.</p><p>‘Tell me,’ he said, soft. ‘Please.’</p><p>The <em>sincerity</em> in his features was almost too much. It made the angel want to say – more. More than he’d planned. More about the painful tenderness he’d felt since that Blitz night. But that was a step beyond. Too fast. And, more to the point – far too dangerous, even for two beings who’d been flaunting convention for the better part of their assignment on Earth.</p><p>He’d talked himself up to broach <em>one</em> difficult subject. That was quite enough for today.</p><p>‘Well.’ A deep breath. ‘I’m a backgammon player.’</p><p>If it weren’t for the hullaballoo outside, one could’ve heard a pin drop. Crowley blinked.</p><p>‘Light in the loafers,’ Aziraphale explained. ‘Musical. Bold. Uranian.’</p><p>‘Angel. Are you <em>coming out</em> to me?’</p><p>‘In as many words. I suppose.’</p><p>Worryingly, Crowley’s eyes shifted from Aziraphale’s to the table, his whole countenance deflated. Did he find this ridiculous? Aziraphale could deal with snappy comments, but this wasn’t disbelief. It reminded him of Crowley’s darkest moments, uneasy memories of extended slumber and requests for Holy Water. It felt like disappointment.</p><p>‘I know it might seem – silly,’ Aziraphale said, quickly. ‘It doesn’t change anything. Not really. I’m certainly not going to be looking for some paramour. But I suppose I – realising that it <em>doesn’t</em> change anything is what made me think about all of this in the first place. It fits me.’</p><p>A smile tugged at Crowley’s lips, and he let out a little sigh, finally lifting his eyes to his friends’.</p><p>‘I know it fits you. I don’t think there was ever a time when it didn’t.’ He let himself sink back into the chair again, in a way that shouldn’t be comfortable. ‘If we’re making big proclamations, I’ll join you. Two bold as brass boys.’</p><p>This took a second to process, but Aziraphale grinned, a little bashful.</p><p>‘You don’t think it’s – strange? To attach such meaning to human things?’</p><p>‘Humans are created in Her image, aren't they? And what are we if not the same?’ He raised one index finger. ‘I’m making a point, right, not trying to start a theological debate about the Almighty and the origins of angels. Take that up with your pal Erasmus.’</p><p>‘Would that I could.’</p><p>‘Anyway. Gays’re a pretty Christian lot, aren’t they, when you get down to it. Love above all else. Standing tall in the face of adversity. Blind faith, even if it’s in your fellow man – or woman, or more. And <em>you</em>’re batting a thousand for the cultural side of things. I’d wager more gay sensibilities than not can be traced back to you directly.’</p><p>‘One doesn’t like to boast,’ Aziraphale demurred, though there was a distinct note of satisfaction in his voice.</p><p>‘One doesn’t, does one?’</p><p>Crowley was almost back to normal, lying in that boneless way that raised questions about how much of him remained serpentine. Only a hint of the tension Aziraphale noted still remaining in the setting of his jaw and the stress of his grip on the armchair.</p><p>‘May I ask when you realised you, er, thought of yourself this way?’ asked Aziraphale.</p><p>There was genuine surprise in Crowley’s eyes, crinkled by his spontaneous grin. ‘A whole subculture of humanity who is, by definition, scrappy, defiant in the face of authority, and appreciative of the finer things in life? When didn’t I relate to them?’</p><p>‘I suppose they rather bridge the gap.’</p><p>‘That why Them Upstairs aren’t fans? Don’t like crossing the streams.’</p><p>A crease between Aziraphale’s eyebrows. ‘You know I –‘</p><p>‘I know. I’m winding you up.’ Crowley picked up his teacup and took his first sip in a long time. ‘It is what it is.’</p><p>The subject fizzling out like that was a relief. There were times in the ‘80s, and even the early ‘90s, when the two of them could barely meet without the conversation turning to increasingly bitter snipes about who was to blame for the plague lacerating the nascent gay rights movement. Heaven had a pretty poor track record, all things considered, and Aziraphale knew the matter was Sandalphon’s particular bugbear – but it was so horrific, so all-encompassing, that Hell <em>must</em> have a hand in it. It simply <em>had </em>to, regardless of what Crowley said.</p><p>Aziraphale didn’t like to think about that. Any of it.</p><p>So he was relieved when Crowley very casually said:</p><p>‘Remember Leonardo’s funeral?’</p><p>Aziraphale nodded.</p><p>‘I asked about you and Erasmus, and you said angels don’t partake in…’ he gestured as Aziraphale had done 477 years ago, ‘… earthly delights.’ Crowley sipped his tea again, delicately put it down, and fixed his eyes on Aziraphale’s. ‘Bearing in mind what we’ve just spoken about. Is that true?’</p><p>‘That’s entirely my business,’ Aziraphale sniffed. Though he couldn’t help continuing: ‘I mean, when one lingers in certain milieus, one forms attachments. And one might let oneself get carried away in the heat of the moment. But I didn’t tell a lie.’</p><p>‘Kisses?’</p><p>‘Oh, yes.’</p><p>Crowley raised his eyebrows. ‘More?’</p><p>‘Barely.’ He fiddled with his hands. ‘You must know how it feels, Crowley. Corporation changes you. It makes you long for – touch. Stretching the definition of chastity, perhaps. But I set limits. I just say I’m spoken for.’</p><p>‘Are you?’</p><p>The question, innocuous, seemed to suck the air out of the room. Aziraphale, who had been reaching for his cup once more, remained frozen mid-movement. It was a natural thing to ask, really, but somehow, it took him completely by surprise. Crowley’s pupils were thin, exclamation marks on gold plates, prodding Aziraphale’s baby blues.</p><p>Heartthrobs. Telling him made sense. Especially now. Everything was perfect. But.</p><p>Too fast. Too dangerous. Too frightening.</p><p>Wrong.</p><p>Crowley broke first. He blinked, and cleared his throat.</p><p>‘Well. It’s entirely your business.’</p><p>Aziraphale’s lungs burned, and he realised he hadn’t been breathing.<a href="#_ftn28" id="_ftnref28" name="_ftnref28">[28]</a> So he took in a deep breath, finally grasped his cup, and settled in his armchair to watch the commotion in the street below.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>London // present day</strong>
</p><p>Narrowly averting the destruction of humanity merits a reward, and so, after a long bus ride back from Tadfield, Crowley and Aziraphale found themselves sitting outside a certain dessert shop in Soho, silently nibbling rose-shaped ice creams, gazing at their reflections in the window of the closed Algerian café across the street, which was sandwiched between the brightly lit Admiral Duncan pub, rainbow flag raised high, and the gay fetish store on the corner.<a href="#_ftn29" id="_ftnref29" name="_ftnref29">[29]</a></p><p>Crowley was the first to break the silence, between bites of organic blackberry petals.</p><p>‘You been?’ he asked, pointing to the pub with his chin, angling for something to say.</p><p>‘Twice,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Early 1830s, I believe, when it opened – something new, you know. And before the new millennium, when they <em>re</em>opened.’ Pause. ‘After the attack.’</p><p>The name suddenly clicked. Of course. The Admiral Duncan was wrecked by a nail bomb about twenty years before, part of a series of attacks by a monster with an agenda. A plaque memorialised the dead and wounded. A statement of remembrance even as the community mourned, rebuilt, and carried on.</p><p>‘Didn’t realise it was this one,’ Crowley murmured. ‘Looks like it’s doing well.’</p><p>‘Yes. Thank goodness.’</p><p>Closing time was rapidly approaching. Stragglers left the pub; men alone, groups of friends chattering without a care, couples holding hands while they still could, while they remained in Soho’s protective bubble. Crowley eyed Aziraphale’s hand, delicately holding a cone topped with a mixture of dulce de leche, stracciatella, and nocciola. His lips were red from the cold ice cream, his eyes baggy and tired after the rollercoaster of the past few days. The ring on his little finger gleamed. He looked beautiful.</p><p>‘Doesn’t feel real. Being here, I mean.’ Crowley gestured with his own cone. ‘Back on old Compton Street. Having sweets. Watching lovers go by. Like nothing happened.’</p><p>‘Do you mean Armageddon, or the bombing?’</p><p>‘Both.’</p><p>Aziraphale smiled at him. It was casual, mid-conversation, but it made Crowley’s heart throb. ‘Resilient lot.’</p><p>Crowley grinned back. ‘Gay people? Or humans in general?’</p><p>‘Both.’</p><p>They sat in companionable silence for a moment, working on their ice cream. Then:</p><p>‘I think we’re pretty bloody resilient,’ murmured Crowley.</p><p>‘Well,’ said Aziraphale. ‘We’ve chosen our faces wisely.’</p><p>‘Think we’ll make it?’</p><p>‘We always have.’</p><p>‘We, angel and demon? Or –‘</p><p>‘—or we, <em>prideful</em> few?’</p><p>They didn’t need to state the obvious answer. Both.</p><p>‘Angel,’ Crowley said, leaning on the metal table between them. ‘Do you reckon the Eclogues I got you’ll be back at the shop?’</p><p>‘I should think so.’ Aziraphale and Crowley had had a cursory browse of his restored home before heading round the corner for their late-night snack, still wading through the thick haze of the last twenty-four hours. ‘I’ll have to look through the shelves upstairs to check, but Adam seems to have made everything good as new.’</p><p>‘You keep it upstairs? With the scraps of Sappho and the Wilde marginalia and the Billy Shakesman?’</p><p>‘Of course I do. It’s a first edition Virgil. And it’s a gift from you.’</p><p>Aziraphale met Crowley’s eyes, and Crowley could almost see the outline of his halo.</p><p>‘You know why I gave it to you?’</p><p>Aziraphale’s mouth parted, slightly, then closed again. The ice cream would have started wilting in his hand, if Crowley hadn’t had the presence of mind to gently miracle it into perfect creamy unmeltable frostiness to avoid spoiling the moment.</p><p>‘The grim lioness pursues the wolf,’ he recited, carefully, quietly, in preternaturally perfect Latin, ‘the wolf the wanton goat, the goat the flowering clover. And Corydon seeks thee, Alexis. The sinking sun doubles the stretching shadows…’</p><p>In the second between lines, in the knowledge of the coming words, Crowley’s insides contracted, twisted, as though he’d downed a shot of Holy Water. But he’d come this far.</p><p>‘Yet my love burns, for who can limit love?’</p><p>Aziraphale’s gaze remained steady, unchanged. Everything felt hot, every pore hellfire.</p><p>‘You know how the rest goes,’ Crowley said, back to English. ‘Why’m I wasting my time on this lad, I should be out weaving baskets, doing Ancient Roman stuff. And if Alexis tells me to piss off, I’ll find another boy. But I don’t want another Alexis. I want you.’</p><p>The words were like flint and steel, lighting a painful spark in the angel’s eyes.</p><p>‘Oh, my dear… even back then?’</p><p>‘Even back then?! Even – bleeding – millennia!’ Maybe as a release for the tension he felt, maybe out of sheer relief, Crowley snorted, looking down. ‘I’d swear you do it on purpose. I honestly would. And I know it’s not bloody right, and doesn’t fit in the bloody Plan, but yesterday, I thought I lost you, and I can’t –‘</p><p>He shot back up when he felt a hand covering his own. A shy smile bloomed on Aziraphale’s face. Tentative. Eager.</p><p>‘I’m rather rusty, I’m afraid. I don’t know the first thing about – being… together. But, I… if you’ll have me –‘</p><p>‘I’ll have you,’ Crowley said immediately. ‘Hold you. Sickness and death, all that.’</p><p>Aziraphale laughed. Crowley shifted his hand, laced their fingers together, and leaned further over the table to finally, <em>finally</em>, capture his friend’s lips. Which were <em>cold</em>, given the ice cream, though they only made him feel hot, sweet-tasting and soft and everything Crowley had dreamed of since the beginning of time.</p><p>‘You’re <em>freezing</em>,’ he smirked against the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, masking elation with attitude.</p><p>And regardless of how oblivious the angel could be, he saw right through the façade.</p><p>‘Hush, dish,’ he said, before making Crowley gasp with a well-placed nip to the lower lip. Kissing was, after all, one of the few physical luxuries he’d allowed himself, and he’d grown really rather good at it.</p><p>‘Careful,’ Crowley breathed. ‘Don’t write chequesss you can’t cash.’</p><p>‘If you’ll show me how to cash them –‘</p><p>Before Crowley could be on him again, a little voice let out a polite cough from inside the shop. The girl from behind the counter stood at the open doorway, in her brown clothes and black apron, with a nervous, kind look on her face.</p><p>‘Sorry to interrupt, guys, but we’re closing… I need to take the chairs inside.’</p><p>‘That’s quite alright, dear,’ said Aziraphale. He stood, promptly, and since he wasn’t letting go of Crowley’s hand, he was pulled up too.</p><p>As the girl closed up and snuck glances at the cute (and very polite)<a href="#_ftn30" id="_ftnref30" name="_ftnref30">[30]</a> couple outside, the fair-haired one lifted his ice cream to his mouth for the first time in about ten minutes and took a leisurely lick.</p><p>‘Well!’ he said, squeezing Crowley’s hand. ‘Shall we head to mine? If Adam was feeling generous, my vintages should be exactly as and where I left them.’</p><p>‘I could do with a drink. Also kissing more.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Among other things. If it’s not too, er, fast for you.’</p><p>Aziraphale blushed, pleased. ‘I’m sure all of that can be arranged. But don’t be a bully if I’m not very good.’</p><p>‘Aziraphale, there’s literally nothing you could do to make it bad. It’s not a challenge, like, but it’s the honest truth.’</p><p>They set off towards the bookshop, and might have stopped once or twice on the short walk for a quick snog in a doorway, which wasn’t a particularly remarkable sight in this neighbourhood. Here, as far as any onlookers were concerned, they were a fairly eclectic couple of ordinary middle-aged men very much in love.</p><p>And regardless of the sacred and profane truth behind their existence, and of the troubles that were sure to come, on the eve of the first day of the rest of their lives, that’s just what they felt like.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> Trading kisses and a few wandering hands after an evening of good wine and conversation skirted the lines of Angelic Propriety, but didn’t cross them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> With buses still thousands of years away, it would be a while before someone else truly understood the feeling of <em>just </em>missing something you’d been planning for ages because you got distracted and left a little too late.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref3" id="_ftn3" name="_ftn3">[3]</a> Foretelling his invention of TV soaps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref4" id="_ftn4" name="_ftn4">[4]</a> Crowley taught him how to use a computer. It took three weeks and four devices immolated in fits of pique, but he bloody well taught him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref5" id="_ftn5" name="_ftn5">[5]</a> Warmer than it should be, anyway, given his particular reptilian heritage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref6" id="_ftn6" name="_ftn6">[6]</a> The 10+ hour dinners that regrettably fell out of fashion around the time the Romans themselves did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref7" id="_ftn7" name="_ftn7">[7]</a> Well, not in mint condition, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref8" id="_ftn8" name="_ftn8">[8]</a> If anyone had thought to ask, Crowley could easily have revealed she had, in fact, been trying hard to stifle giggles while he told her and Leonardo about the juiciest Florentine gossip to help pass the endless sitting sessions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref9" id="_ftn9" name="_ftn9">[9]</a> We wouldn’t dare speculate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref10" id="_ftn10" name="_ftn10">[10]</a> We would dare speculate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref11" id="_ftn11" name="_ftn11">[11]</a> This action instantly rendered any hot drink the perfect temperature, because Aziraphale assumed that’s what was supposed to happen, and far be it from the universe to dash an angel’s remaining little innocences.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref12" id="_ftn12" name="_ftn12">[12]</a> dark and handsome et al.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref13" id="_ftn13" name="_ftn13">[13]</a> Nakamura called it ‘atmospheric,’ which was a polite way of saying ‘a way to save on candles.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref14" id="_ftn14" name="_ftn14">[14]</a> And set a small fire in the prison to liberate a few more, but Aziraphale didn’t <em>have</em> to know that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref15" id="_ftn15" name="_ftn15">[15]</a> Something Crowley noticed, for obvious reasons.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref16" id="_ftn16" name="_ftn16">[16]</a> And Crowley noticed that too, of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref17" id="_ftn17" name="_ftn17">[17]</a> He was excited for someone to invent the Punk movement a couple of decades hence so he could really fuck some shit up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref18" id="_ftn18" name="_ftn18">[18]</a> One could make the case that these particular books were cooked to slip-off-the-bone perfection, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref19" id="_ftn19" name="_ftn19">[19]</a> Simply altering the law to legalise same-sex activity and render blackmail ineffectual was far too sensible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref20" id="_ftn20" name="_ftn20">[20]</a> For some reason, it was always easy to find volunteers, which just goes to show the spirit of sacrifice the British are capable of in a crisis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref21" id="_ftn21" name="_ftn21">[21]</a> Which, according to the slang he would himself invent in the internet age, would make him a rather extreme example of a simp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref22" id="_ftn22" name="_ftn22">[22]</a> As Crowley had invented capitalism (for a laugh, before it kind of got out of hand), the Powers That Be were willing to accept this as part of the fight against the forces of Hell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref23" id="_ftn23" name="_ftn23">[23]</a> Which was how the evenings tended to end, but he didn’t usually mind. Not like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref24" id="_ftn24" name="_ftn24">[24]</a> Or badly want to, anyway. After experiencing as little as five minutes on the Tube, who could blame them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref25" id="_ftn25" name="_ftn25">[25]</a> The streets were brimming with men wearing far less, which was certainly a sight for sore eyes, but it was different. They weren’t Crowley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref26" id="_ftn26" name="_ftn26">[26]</a> He might have asked Crowley, who’d become an expert in the inscrutable matters of the heart after millennia of pining, but, you know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref27" id="_ftn27" name="_ftn27">[27]</a> And not the actual dog collar he was wearing to complete his Pride Look.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref28" id="_ftn28" name="_ftn28">[28]</a> And not, as happened in the early years of his embodiment on Earth, because he’d forgotten. We shalln’t specify the exact number of discoporations that came about as a result of absent-minded asphyxia, but it was a non-zero amount.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref29" id="_ftn29" name="_ftn29">[29]</a> Dessert and gay interest shops being the only businesses open this late at night in this part of London. It’s good business sense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="small"><a href="#_ftnref30" id="_ftn30" name="_ftn30">[30]</a> Aziraphale was, obviously, exemplary in his attitude to service workers. Crowley made a point of not tipping when they went out to eat together. But it just so happened that, whenever he grabbed a bite to eat on his own, he was possessed by a powerful and sudden clumsiness that made him drop all his change in neat stacks on the table before he left.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Eagle-eyed Londoners might recognise the Amorino on Old Compton Street in the last bit. Immersive storytelling........</p><p>Couple of quick notes for the curious:</p><p>The miracle of the Madonna of Montevergine is <a href="https://qspirit.net/madonna-montevergine-lgbtq/">real</a> and local celebrations include pilgrimages by members of the LGBT community.</p><p>The excerpt of the text from the Old Bailey is also real, except for one additional line (see if you can guess which). Look up Mother Clap's molly house for more details, and check out the eponymous play by Mark Ravenhill if you can.</p><p>Gay honeypots were (are?) real enough, but I played pretty fast and loose with the truth. <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-35360172">This BBC article</a> is a good place to start. Things get pretty wild.</p><p>The men who get a passing mention in the 1955 section are John Addington Symonds and Magnus Hirschfeld, pioneers of LGBT rights in the West.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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